


Hysteria

by topcatnikki



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fist Fights, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, M/M, Manga canon compliant, Masturbation in Shower, Max can fit both of his feet in his own mouth, OC Squad Members, Psychological Trauma, References to Ash, Smoking, Tragedy, Tragic Romance, Unhappy Ending, War, bad flirting still counts as flirting, but there's something he'd like to put there instead, the calm before the storm ngl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-06-24 01:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15619902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topcatnikki/pseuds/topcatnikki
Summary: It's the work of seconds, it's the reflexive training, it's the fight or flight instinct that has kept him alive for so long. It's the only thing he could have done, in that moment.It doesn't make Griffin any less dead for all of the excuses he uses. There are a thousand excuses that he hides behind, a million justifications.It doesn't make losing Griffin any fucking easier though.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who not only found a new fandom, but found a brand new rarepair while they were at it?
> 
> Yep its me, the walking disaster :') 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy this fic, I'm genuinely excited to write the pairing and cant wait to see what you all think!

War is hell. 

 

It is the slogan of the poor souls trapped in the barrages and battles of Vietnam. Those men who are pushed over and over again in a conflict they barely believe in but can't escape, for the people risking their lives for causes that have died along the way in the war. Now it’s just the never ending slog of every man for his company. Somewhere between leaving their homes, donning their uniforms, and landing in Vietnam something had been lost - a certainty of their actions, a willingness to win. 

 

Max has been an active participant in the lie, he's made all of the moves and put one foot in front of each other as he drowns. He's resigned to his fate now - that he won't be making it out of this mess alive, it’s just a matter of when.

 

Casualty is a natural part of war, guys are mown down on the daily and shipped home in gurneys and boxes. Max has grown so desensitised to it he barely keeps track anymore. He doesn’t keep track of the replacements either, they don’t bare much attention because they still have some version of the star spangled ass cracker shoved up their ass and are full of the ‘yes sir, no sir’ that had been bombarded out of most of the older guys. Max tries to keep his distance from them, he doesn’t want to catch a stray because some green boy can’t shoot for shit and gets nervous in the service. 

 

That’s what makes Griffin Callenreece so different from the rest. 

 

Griffin rolls in with a fresh batch of cannon fodder, easily overlooked and put aside because he’s not excitedly yammering with the rest of his flock about how many guys he’s gonna take down and how tough he is. Max doesn’t see him, not really, but Griffin seems to exist on the edge of Max’s peripheral for weeks before Max even catalogues his name. There’s no point in learning the Green Boys names, they’re never gonna last long - unless they do. Griffin does. Somehow.

 

Griffin ends up in Max’s company by sheer administrative handwaving, but he exists there far longer than any of the vets expect. It's like a static form of osmosis, the way Griffin becomes a part of the company - sticking to the edges of the group, removed if only by nature of his reticence. Max isn’t sure when he finally notices Griffin, he couldn’t put a time or a date on it, but when he finally realises the man is there it’s as though he can’t tear his attention away. 

 

Or maybe it’s as symbiotic as his inclusion in the company. 

 

Griffin doesn’t talk, not really. He’s there and he gets the job done, but he doesn’t interact with the guys in the company. Griffin keeps his head down and his nose clean and passes mostly unnoticed in the shuffle of people that cycle in and out.

 

Max notices Griffin, though. He notices that the guy isn’t exactly a  _ part _ of the company, Griff is far more busy penning reams and reams of letters. They joke that he’s got some girl back home, a Stacey or a Karen waiting for him who he’s writing all of those essays for. The guys laugh uproariously, slapping legs and ribbing the poor kid mercilessly but Max sees the way Griffs expression downturns slightly. 

 

If Max has a failing, it’s that he’s curious to a fault. He asks too many questions and is too in people's faces. Not a good look for a soldier, but something that he fosters in his chest like a secret. He likes to know things, to put pieces together like a puzzle and watch the full picture come into view.

 

And Griffin Callenreese is a puzzle.

 

He’s obviously one of the guys who’s been drafted - he's far too fish out of water in this hell hole not to be - but he’s also a lot of other things. 

 

Griffin is observant, he can see the small details and analyse them quickly. He’s introspective, keeping his thoughts to himself until they fully come to fruition. He’s intensely private, which Max discovers early on by grace of being told to stay the hell out of Griffin’s business when he asks too many questions. And Griffin has limits.

The first time Griff hits his limit comes from nowhere. They’re working a job, same as usual. Dealing with the stench and the viscera that had once churned Max’ stomach but now he’s so detached from the reality he only sees it as mess that needs to be cleaned up. Griff has done this before, there's nothing different about the day, until there is and everything falls apart.

 

Griff is yelling.

 

He’s cursing and swearing and Max has never heard the guy raise his voice let alone call anyone a cowardly fucking bastard, but it’s happening and Max is in Griffs space in seconds to pull him the hell out. Griff is still spitting mad and it’s like trying to hold down a fucking wildcat, the guy is huge and all muscle and fucking fast and Max has no fucking clue what’s set him off but he’s not gonna let one guy flying off the handle derail the whole company. 

 

Max digs his heels, he plants his feet, and he punches the kid square in the jaw.

 

That stops the swearing, it stops everything actually. Griffs struggling stops and he turns to Max with a look of such unadulterated fucking loathing that Max recoils from it. It’s like a snake readying to strike or a big cat readying to take down prey, the look of venom that sweeps over Max.

 

“Griff, I -” Max doesn’t even know what he’s going to say, it doesn’t matter though because Griff squares his shoulders and turns back to the squad without a single word.

 

* * *

 

Max seeks out Griffin later, once all of the carnage has been cleared and they’ve made it back to base. He’s freshly showered and fed, he’d scanned the mess for signs of Griffs sandy hair but saw hide nor hair of the kid. It puts him on edge. Something about the altercation makes Max want to go and fucking justify himself to the guy, to explain himself and it’s the dumbest fucking shit because he shouldn’t have to - he did what he had to do for the squad - but that wriggling feeling in his gut pushes him on and spurs him into finding Griff.

 

The air is cloying and sticky and Max can feel it in his lungs as he walks the barracks, he’s thinking about checking the rec room - there’s usually a card game going on after a big clean up, the guys need to blow off steam and rib each other to death over poker hands and cigarettes but Griff would normally stick to the outskirts of it. 

 

Not today, Max reckons.

 

The bunks are quiet - peaceful. The air is still and the room is barely lit by the single lamp that throws Griffin's profile into sharp relief, he's balancing on the edge of his bed,hunched over the notepad in his lap scrawling away furiously. Griff doesn’t look up when Max comes in, his fingers don’t still on the paper. He doesn’t look up when Max settles on the bunk opposite him, and he doesn’t flinch at the click-snap of Max’s lighter. Instead he holds out splayed fingers and gestures at Max’s hand, claiming the cig when Max relinquishes it.

 

Max lights another one.

 

“I wanted to kill you, you know.” It’s said so lightly and matter-of-factly that it takes a second for Max to process. The cig dangles from Griffs lips, wobbling as he continues with a tiny uptick at the corner of his mouth. “When you punched me, I wanted to put you down for it - but then I realised I’d have to clean up after myself and figured I’d save the squad the trouble.”

 

When Griff looks at Max the tiny uptick turns into a wry grin and Max can’t help the huffed laugh that he responds with. “Yeah, would have been fucking messy considering I’d have taken you out first.”

 

“Oh sure.” Griffs light voice is tinged with amused sarcasm.

 

“Hey! I could totally take you in a fight!” 

 

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Griff puffs of the cig, the end flaring and painting him in red and gold. The smile sobers a little, the eye contact sticks and Max can see the lingering fear at the edges of Griffs expression. “I wouldn’t want to find out.”

 

“No. No, me either.” He feels shaky as he considers it, what could have happened if Griff had fought back. Max doesn’t know, he isn’t sure which of them would come out the victor because they’re both well trained killing machines - soldiers molded and fitted into the shape of people who can cause damage with deadly force in seconds. It hurts. It hurts to know that if Griff had fought back it wouldn’t have ended with wry smiles and shared cigarettes. He huffs again, trying to blow away the insidious thoughts and focus on Griff. “You wanna talk about it?”

 

“About what?” Griff fires back, reflexive and sharp.

 

“About whatever freaked you out back there. I’m not judging or anything, I just… I’m worried - about  _ you _ .”

 

Griff blinks at that, eyes shifting down to the notepad and pen, then back up to Max with that smile again. “You don’t have to worry about me. I got my senses knock back into me by some ham-fisted idiot.”

 

Max laughs at that, feeling the smile pulling at his lips and Griffs eyes dance with amusement for a moment. It’s nice. It’s forgiveness wrapped in sarcasm and smiles and Max relaxes finally. He kills the cig in his fingers and lights a second, leaning into Griffs space a little and gesturing to the pad. “So… who’re the essays for?” 

 

There’s a split second where the eye contact breaks, Griff looking down at the pad again and then back to Max with a warm smile. “They’re for Aslan - my little brother - he’s back home and I’m pretty much all he’s got so I…” He shrugs a little, letting the words fade off then picking back up again. “The kid has a chip on his shoulder the size of Long Island I swear it.” 

 

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

 

“You never asked.” 

 

“True.” The silence that follows is comfortable, Griff stealing the end of Maxs cig as he finishes penning the letter and Max just waiting him out, watching the tiny changes in Griffs expression as he bites his lip and frowns over wording. It should be uncomfortable or at the very least weird for Max to just be watching Griff like this, but Griff catches his eye between sentences and smiles and Max can feel the warmth of it in his chest. 

 

“It’s not all letters.” 

 

“Oh?” Max had been far away, buried somewhere in the warmth that Griffs smile had gifted him and daydreaming about somehow keeping the feeling. He could fight a war powered by the warmth of that smile, or at least it felt like it.

 

“Yeah, I write stuff. Thoughts, feelings? I guess?” Griff gives another shrug and Max can tell that this one is different. There’s something vulnerable in the tilt of his shoulders that has Max wanting to reassure, wanting to reach out and to settle whatever nerves have reared up with gentle hands. Instead he gestures to the notepad, quirking a brow that is all question and Griff answers with a hesitant nod that makes Max’s chest feel tight.

 

Max’s fingers linger when they exchange the notepad, just a little but enough to make the tight feeling even more constricting because Griff  _ allows _ it.

 

Max feels shaky again, but it’s not because he feels like he’s wronged a squad member, or because he’s wondering about the thousand fucking ways their altercation could have ended. This unsettled curling in his gut is because he’s not a fucking idiot. Max ain't exactly fucking straight and Griff is not exactly recoiling from the touch. It’s not unheard of and it’s not even fucking unusual when guys are trapped in a fucking war zone together, but there’s that vulnerability in Griff that makes Max want to run in the opposite direction as far and fast as he can because  _ that _ is the dangerous part.

 

Max is the guy who is always looking for the big picture in the puzzle, who sees the edges fitting together and sees the way each part of the whole works. Like the squad, and each of them having their limits. Like the cleanups and the stories they tell in little pieces that string together as a whole. Like the kid in front of him and the words on the page - pages. There are pages and pages of scrawled thoughts. Some of them broken up and fragmented, others are streams of consciousness. 

 

Really it’s poetry.

 

“Griff… these are amazing.” There’s a voice crack somewhere in that sentence but Max can’t find it in himself to care. He probably should, it’s too telling, too revealing; but Griff is revealing himself right back, isn’t he? Griff doesn’t talk, he doesn’t feel the need to fill the silences that yawn like a chasm in the squad when they’re on a job and elbow deep in the filth of war. He doesn’t join in the ribbing and never ending loudmouthing like Max does. Instead he puts it all out in snippets of words, in curling phrases and prose. 

 

Max has to tear himself away from the pages, has to look away to gauge Griffs reaction, has to tell Griff something because the silence is deafening him.When he finds Griffs gaze there's a kind of shattered vulnerability in the look that pulls at every instinct in Max. 

 

Yes, Max likes puzzles, and he sees Griff - he sees something in him that calls out to something within Max. A level of intellect, an understanding of their predicament, and an attraction that’s edged by the fact that any day could be their last. That’s what the words on Griffs notepad say, they spell it out in words Max could never find in a million years.

 

Their touch lingers once more when Max hands the notepad back in silence. Max doesn’t recoil at the touch though, he welcomes it.

 

* * *

 

Griff starts talking, after that. 

 

At first it’s just to Max, he speaks about his Father and the piece of shit leaving him to raise his half-brother so he can go get fucking laid with his new piece of ass. He talks about the brother, Aslan - and how he’s the greatest fucking kid, a little asshole for sure but he’s the centre of Griffs world while he’s stuck in this shithole.

 

Griff talks about home. He doesn’t talk like the rest of the guys - with a longing tinged with sadness - he talks with a wide-eyed fear that he’s too far removed to protect his little brother. Max knows what he means, they don’t  _ say _ it, but the things he says and the  _ way _ he says them illustrate the point well enough. 

 

Griff talks about some of the shit he’s seen, how he wasn’t a ‘Green Boy’ when he arrives in Max’s squad but he’d been shipped in with them after his last company was dissolved. He doesn’t go into why it was dissolved, he doesn’t talk about it, but there are nights when he has nightmares and wakes up the squeal with his shouting. 

 

They ignore it, Max, Billy, Griff - they ignore the nightmares because they all have them. Griffs just seem to come thicker and faster than the rest.

 

They ignore a lot of things. Max works very hard to ignore the curve of Griffs shoulder in his undershirt when he shucks his jacket because of the heat. He ignores the way his gaze lingers just a second too long on Griff when they’re out on manoeuvres, he checks on everyone on the squad, of course, but his gaze always lingers longer on Griffs back. Max ignores the warmth that blossoms when Griff offers him that sardonic smile and ignores the turn of his thoughts when he’s alone in his bunk at night.

 

They say ignorance is bliss, after all.

 

* * *

 

The next time Griff loses it Max isn’t there to stop the fallout.

 

Max is sat in a goddamn hospital bed because he somehow gotten bitten by some whateverthefuck crawler in the jungle and is perched on the edge of the stiff mattress with his ankle being frowned at by the doc. It had taken half of the squad bitching at him to even get him here, and fuck did he feel like an idiot. He should have double checked his pants when they’d crossed that river but he’d been distracted by something Griff was saying and the way he grinned loosely. It’s his own damned fault.

 

The doc is cleaning the tiny nick that is so inflamed that Max feels like his goddamn leg might pop off, chastising him that he needs to get shit like this cleaned immediately because the jungle is like a petri dish and Max’s leg is apparently dessert when the sound of raised voices breaks into his lecture. The doors to the tiny wing fly open and Griff is being dragged in by Micky, and Bill is hauling ass behind them red-faced and raging. 

 

But Griff. Griff is fucking  _ livid _ . 

 

Max can't even make out the words he's saying they're coming so thick and fast and he's fighting Micky like hell trying to get out of his grip. Max takes advantage of the distraction and struggles to his feet, his ankle protests at the weight being back on it but he manages to stumble toward the group. 

 

“What the hell is this?” It comes out far more accusatory than he wants, and he ain't got stripes or shit for them to report to but Billy and Micky fill him in and Griff stops fighting as hard when he hears Max’s voice. 

 

They’d been on a job, normal fucking routine or so they’d assumed until they’d cleared the rubble sufficiently enough to see what the fuck they were dealing with.

 

“It was an orphanage, Glenreed. We didn’t fucking know and Griff was the first in - he - he just flipped.” Micky looks sick at even recounting it, shaky and pieced together like the rest of the audience for the horror show, and he’s still dealing with Griff fighting him. “Billy caught the flack for it, he tried to pull Griff back but got a sore jaw for his effort. Took three guys just to get him calm enough to bring him here and then the minute he saw the wing he started yelling again.” 

 

“Shit.” That's not going to sum anything the fuck up but it’s good enough for now. He takes a deep breath and looks Griff over, he’s been roughed up no doubt and he looks like shit but there's no immediate worry for his physical wellbeing. Billy has a bruise the size of Ohio on his chin though so Max suggests he goes to see the doc, who's just watching them all carefully for any signs he might have to duck and cover. “Micky bring Griff over here -” 

 

He pulls the pair off to the other end of the ward, Griff is still putting up a fight but his words are clearer now  _ ‘fuck it's so fucked -’ _ he’s mumbling to himself and pushing at Micky as they settle on an empty pair of beds. It’s reminiscent of their last time alone, once Max has sent Micky to check on Billy. The beds are close together and Griffs head is bowed again but there's no notepad in his grasp and it’s the middle of the day. 

 

“Griff?” 

 

“Fucked. It's so so fucked I - fuck it's fucked.” Griffs hands are balled into fists, grasping at his pant legs with whitened knuckles.

 

“Griff, it’s Max. It’s just us, bud.” He gets nothing but the same repetition of cursing and Max blows out a breath, he doesn’t know what the fuck to do here…

 

So he waits. 

 

Billy and Micky take their leave, Bill looks like he wants to call Griff out but Micky just grabs him by the arm and leads him out. The doc comes back around and hands Max a dressing telling him to cover his fucking leg if he wants to keep it and that he’ll be back around in the morning to check the wound out for infection then. All the while Griff is staring at his fists. The mumbling dies off but he’s still frozen and Max contemplates reaching out to him but can’t bring himself to.

 

“It was a fucking Orphanage, Max.”

 

The sun is dying in the sky and casting the room in oranges and blacks and Max had been so hyper focused on Griffs fists that he hadn’t noticed he’s being stared at.

 

“A fucking orphanage and there were fucking kids everywhere and I just - I don't even fucking know it was just too fucking much - I -” Griffs fingers tighten and loosen reflexively.

 

“It’s the job, Griff.” Max hates himself for saying it, he hates the fact that it’s fucking true, he hates the way Griffs features twist and tears brim. 

 

“Fuck - fucking - you think I don't  _ know _ ?” Griffs fury is hemmed in by tears, spilling over and over and Max hates everything about this fucking war because Griff shouldn’t fucking  _ be _ here. None of them fucking should but definitely not Griff, he should be in a bar in fucking Soho or some shit writing anti-war poetry and protesting. “You think I don't know what we're fucking here for? You think I’m here for the fucking scenery you fucking fuck? I’d go fucking AWOL tomorrow if I thought I could get away with it but I  _ have _ to fucking be here.”

 

Max can’t help it, his fucking temper gets to the punch before he can stop it and he blurts, “I’m a fucking fuck? You think I want to fucking be here either? What fucking sane person wants to spent their days in this hell?” He’s angry. He’s fucking furious that Griff is fucking throwing this shit at him. He’s reaching out and grabbing the kid, pulling him to his feet and shaking and Griff doesn’t fucking take it. Griff pushes back at him, hands slipping off shoulders when he can’t get the grip he needs to separate them. 

 

They’re both shouting now but fuck knows what Max is spitting at the guy, they’re trapped between the hospital beds and scuffing like a pair of kids who don’t know how to land a fucking punch yet because they haven’t got the fucking space to land an actual punch. Max manages to get a hand around the back of Griffs neck and pulls him in, pushing him back and down face first onto the bed behind him and there's a pained huff from the metal of the bedstead catching Griffs ribs, but Max just follows the momentum with a soldiers dilligence. He twists with his hand still caught in sandy strands, putting his weight on Griffs neck and a foot on the back of Griffs calf and pinning him half on the rickety bed.

 

“Fuck you. Fuck you for ever fucking saying that you piece of shit.” He hisses it into Griffs ear leaning down and down to get right into his space. The slit of one blue eye watches him, the muscles of his neck cording and teeth bared against the crisp sheets. Griffs left arm comes up in retaliation, swinging back and planting right in Max’s face. The suddenness of it catches Max off guard and he topples, the same pained huff pushed from his own lips when his hip cracks on the bed behind him. 

 

Griff is fucking fast. Max has noticed it in training drills and when they're out on maneuvers, but he’d never appreciated it until he’s pinned on the bed beneath Griff, arms pinned above him and long legs trapped under the fucking bedstead. He pushes against the grip, trying to get his legs under him but there’s no fucking way unless he wants to become a contortionist in his spare fucking time. 

 

“Fuck you. Fuck you, Max I swear to fucking God -” Griff is in his face the same way Max had been in Griffs seconds before. “I don't fucking want this. You think I'm fucking crazy? No one fucking wants this - this fucking  _ hell.  _ It’s - it's so so fucked Max I can’t...”

 

The fight goes out of them both at that, Griff is still fucking crying for fucks sake and Max is trapped as Griff sags against his chest. His grip loosens on Max’s wrists, snaking down to cover his face and Max grits his teeth against the onslaught. It hurts. It fucking hurts because they don’t fucking  _ deserve _ this. Griff is only fucking eighteen and Max is twenty-fucking-two and they should be fucking around in bars and getting rowdy with their friends, not stuck in this fucking jungle and fighting each other like a pair of fucking teenagers. 

 

“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry Griff I - I fucked up I’m just…” Max can feel his fucking teeth creaking against each other but he forces the words out, stalling and stammering like the fucking kid he is because fuck they're  _ all  _  fucking kids. “I hate it so fucking much I want to scream. I didn't - fuck I shouldn’t have lashed out.”

 

Griff doesn't say anything but his fingers press into the skin of his face a little harder at Max’s words.

 

“Griff? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Griff?” He doesn’t know what to do, so often around Griff he’s left in the dust, intellectually, in drills, when they play poker and Max finally convinces Griff to join and loses spectacularly to him - but this time it’s Griff who’s fighting alone. 

 

Max snakes an arm around Griffs waist, using the other to free Griffs face from the death-grip of his fingers. “Griff, please. Look at me?” He’s not even sure why he asks, maybe it's because no matter how fucked everything is - even when Max had punched Griff in his fucking face - Griff has never hidden himself, not like this. 

 

Max peels those fingers away and he’s not sure what he was fucking expecting. That wry twist of a sarcastic smile maybe, or the sneer that had twisted Griffs features minutes ago. Instead Griff buries his face further into Max’s chest, hiding and more hiding and Max hates it. 

 

“Griff, please I’m so sorry, please look at me. I - I  _ need _ you to I’m so sorry.” He tightens his hold on Griffs waist, pulling them closer together and displacing Griff from his hiding place but griff burrows into the meat of his shoulder. Max pulls him away. Pulls him out of the safety of his hiding and looks up at him. 

 

It’s like looking in some fucked up mirror. There’s pain and hatred warring over Griffs features, but they aren't for Max. He knows because he knows the feeling, he knows because there's a constriction in Max’s throat and tears burning his eyes threatening to spill. 

 

Griffs fingers fall from Max’s grip, finding their way to Max’s face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “Don’t apologise. God Max don’t - it’s not you. It’s not you it's not its this place and this war and its  _ fucked _ .” Griffs voice is hoarse from crying and his face is flushed as his tears spill but the look he gives Max is pleading. “Please, please don’t apologise…”

 

Griffs thumbs are still smoothing over Max’s cheeks, his tears have stopped now but it feels like Max’s are just about to start because Griff is looking down at him like he’s the delicate one - like he’s the one who’s breaking. Maybe he is, maybe he is because he feels like his world is sliding away and off-kilter. Maybe he is because he can’t help but stare right back up at Griff, his heart thumping heavily. Maybe he is because one of Griffs thumbs changes its path and tracks to his lips in the mockery of a kiss and all Max does is whisper Griffs name against it.

 

“Please don't apologise…” Griffs plea is sealed with a kiss, a press of lips that he sighs into and Max responds to in seconds. It’s soft, and sweet, and slow, and all of the things their lives don't have right now. It’s so  _ deliberate _ , it’s controlled and the tightness in Max’s chest expands outward into a blossoming warmth. Max tries to chase Griffs lips when he pulls away, he tries to pull him back in but Griff leans away from his touch. “Do I need to apologise for that?”

 

* * *

 

“No. Fuck no.” Max tries to chase him again but Griff is out of range, one hand planted on the bed next to Max’s head, holding him up, and the other still cradling Max’s cheek.

 

“Good. I wouldn’t want to waste all our time apologising for wanting you.” It sounds almost like a joke, Max is almost waiting for that familiar quirk of lips that precludes Griffs quiet sense of humor, but it doesn’t come. Griff says it like it’s a promise and leans back into Max’s space, almost close enough for their noses to bump as he adds. “We’ve wasted enough time -”

 

Max cuts him off with a kiss.

 

It doesn't change anything, in the end. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the tags guys for here there be smut!! And also dorky feels.

A picture is worth a thousand words, or so they say. Max has learned, however, that there is always far more to an image than the single frame. The heat, the smell, the  _ noise _ of the jungle. A picture can never do justice to the way the Cicadas chirp a clockwork rhythm, like some sick countdown of their occupation in this hell.

 

The heat is oppressive, sweat gathering in the curve of Max’s spine as the squad march through the undergrowth, the road impassable after a storm the night before and the air is so thick with the humidity that Max’s chest feels like he’s breathing water. 

 

They make it to the clean up site, its nothing more than a clearing that’s been levelled and destroyed by Jack boots and infantry and is strewn with enemy and ally alike, some faces twisted in pain, others could be resting they look so peaceful. Max breathes through his mouth and ducks his head at the sight. It’s the job. Always the job, and Max doesn’t say a word against it.

 

Unless it’s to Griff. 

 

Griff talks a lot now, he talks endlessly. He even talks to the guys in the squad, not about the job - it’s like an unwritten rule of the company that they don’t talk about it - but he talks about asinine shit that occurs to him throughout the day. He talks about Billy’s bruise and laughs with the guys over how dumb it had been, he talks about Micky’s gal back home whenever the subject comes up. Micky is real proud of his gal, he shows her picture every time he gets a new letter and boast about how he’s gonna marry her the second he gets home. 

 

(They definitely don’t talk about the fact that Micky probably won’t make it home. It’s another taboo that is circumvented with jockulary.)

 

Griff smiles more and more after their time in the hospital, he smiles wider and happier than he had when they had just started to connect. He smiles bright and happy when the company photographer makes his rounds and Max pulls him in for a picture. Max ignores the tiny part of his ego that congratulates him on bringing that smile out, chastises himself for the thought. Max hasn't done anything to help Griff, not really, but whatever had been shadowing his thoughts when he first transferred had faded over the weeks. 

 

It’s when they’re alone that Griff really Talks. He talks about flipping out the first time, that the sight of so many civilian casualties had been too much for him. He talks about the orphanage, about getting the detritus cleared just enough to squeeze into the space and finding himself face to face with the dismembered parts of what had been a kid. He'd probably been around Aslan’s age. Max’s stomach churns at that, his chest tightening. 

 

Max Talks too. He talks about how he'd been so, so duped by all of the propaganda. How he'd bought what the US Army was selling and if he hadn't had his number come up he'd have been at the enrollment office himself. He talks about the slow realisation that this war wasn't what he'd thought it was, how the disillusionment had set in and he'd been scrambling ever since to find some kind of balance. He talks about how after all of this he'll never, ever put himself in a position where he would serve under corrupt and power mad Generals. 

 

They talk quietly between themselves - they steal moments, snippets of time between jobs and hands of cards. They share cigarettes and as much closeness as they dare to risk. Privacy isn't something that squad life allows, really, but Max finds himself gravitating to Griff even when they're not alone. When they do manage to find scant seconds of seclusion, they press their palms together in a tight squeeze that belies their attachment. Once they even manage another kiss, a quiet press of lips that has Max dreaming of more in his bunk that night.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam digs out a pig skin on their down days, he’d been the star quarterback on his high school team before he’d been drafted and liked to drag as many of the squad as he could into a game. Griff would wave Sam off and sit on the sidelines with his notepad in hand, writing to Aslan while the rest of the guys threw all of their pent up aggression into destroying each other on the field. Today is a little different. Griff is on the sidelines as usual, but his notepad is abandoned on the grass beside him and he’s watching the game with rapt attention.

 

“Hey! If you’re not writing you could be helping us out.” Max suggests after the third time he lands on his ass because Billy is a big fucker and loves to take him down. Griff grins in reply, that snarky twist of lips that he uses when he’s being a shit and he knows it.

 

“Unlike you, I value my ass.”

 

“I think you’ll find I value your ass too-” The words are out before Max really considers them and Griff almost busts his gut he’s laughing so hard. The guys pause in their bickering over the play at the sound of Griff losing his shit, bemused by the outburst. Max is thanking every deity known to man that they hadn't heard the words that had snapped from him like a slingshot, instead he focuses on Griff who’s red-faced and watery eyed. “Stop laughing at me asshole.” Max sounds like a petulant ass, he knows, but the way Griffs laughter peaks at that has him grinning in reply before he heads back to the group and drags himself back into the action. 

 

If he throws himself into the game with a little more enthusiasm than earlier, it definitely not because he knows he has Griffs undivided attention. 

 

* * *

 

 

“You know, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t join a game once in a while.” 

 

Griff rolls his eyes at the suggestion when Max finally flops onto the grass beside him. The guys are filing off to shower and pushing each other around, paying no attention to Max and Griff. “It’s just not my sport, idiot.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Max eyes Griff, but Griff isn’t paying him any mind now he’s not getting his ass kicked. 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

The answer is sufficiently short that Max just  _ has _ to dig at him a little, if only to get his attention back. “Then what is your sport, your majesty?”

 

“Baseball.” Griff supplies idly, eyes fixed on the field and arm around his knees.

 

“Baseball?”

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“Any reason why?” The question finally has Griffs attention, pulling him away from his musing and warming slightly as he looks down at Max.

 

“Aslan plays little league, I used to help out at his practice.” Griff smiles at the thought of his little brother and Max relishes the sight. So often they have the burdens of their experiences weighing them down, but right here right now Griff is relaxed. He drops his elbows and reclines beside Max in a slouch that brings their shoulders into contact. 

 

“Oh yeah, he any good?”

 

“I think so! But I might be a little biased, proud big brother and all…”

 

“Nothing wrong with being proud.” Max shrugs, their shoulders brush again and Max wants to lean into it. “What about you?”

 

“Mmh?”

 

“Well you play, right?” Griff shrugs and Max is thrilled at the fact that Griff  _ actually _ leans into it, which is probably the reason he immediately loses his train of thought and blurts, “What's your speciality? Fielding? Pitching? Catch-” 

 

Max pauses, backtracks over the words he's just said, and freezes for a second as Griff turns to him slowly. 

 

“I should… Shower? Maybe?” Maybe if Max tries hard enough he can drown himself in shame for the fact he managed to insert both of his feet into his mouth this time. Griffs sardonic eyebrow raise is the perfect punctuation to the conversation and Max struggles to his feet with a wild flail of limbs and a - “See ya later.”

 

Max almost manages to run headfirst into the guys as they're filing out of the shower block, he's so busy congratulating himself on winning asshole of the year that he doesn't see them coming. There's a shuffle of bodies and a few comments on Max removing his head from his ass, but on closer inspection the suggestion is dismissed due to the fact he'd have to face Griff and deal with the fact he'd propositioned him twice in the last hour if his head wasn't buried deep. So… No.

 

Instead he strips hastily, balling his shirt and shorts onto the bench and shucking out of his underwear at top speed. The sooner he gets the the shower the quicker he can scrub the shame away. The stalls are thankfully empty when he enters the shower room, he'd been too preoccupied by his own idiocy to do a headcount when he'd bumped into the guys, but he's glad for the opportunity to wallow in his own stupidity without anyone making small talk. 

 

The water is blessed relief - sure, its lukewarm at best and the pressure is less than amazing - but something about the freedom to shower alone is helping him rationalise away the interaction with Griff. Max ducks under the spray and considers just how dumb he had to be, how utterly stupid he had to sound, and how there's a good chance Griff is making his way back to the bunks shaking his head at Max’s complete lack of tact. 

 

Sometimes Max considers himself intelligent - or at least smart enough to hold his own - but there's something about Griff that disarms him more frequently than not. Max is at least sixty percent bravado and twenty percent bullshit, the rest is God's honest optimism and aggressive repression of his existential streak. He doesn't like to focus on the fact that it'd be a miracle if he made it out of this war alive, but it creeps in at the edges of his psyche. 

 

And if that's the case then why the fuck should he regret himself? It's the only life he's got and he shouldn't waste it away wishing for something unattainable. Yet… Yet he does. He dreams of kisses they don't get to share, of closeness they haven't experienced, and of the intimacy he craves when they manage the barest press of palms. It's not enough for him, not by miles because the loftiest of his dreams have them making it out of this hell hole and miles away from the US Army, holing up somewhere in Europe where two guys living together wouldn't be too weird and no one would know them from Adam. 

 

Max buries it deep and reels himself back into the moment, soaping his chest and carefully crafting his rather wordy apology for Griff when the shower room doors creak open. He doesn't pay the sound any mind, so used to the lack of privacy and the unwritten - yet frequently broken - rule that you don't check out your squadmates asses that he ducks back into the shower spray and works the lather away quickly, wondering if he can maybe pay griff off with cigs to never mention it again. 

 

It's only the distinct lack of another shower starting up that pulls Max away from his thought processes, making him pause. The change in his focus must spur the intruder into action because as he turns to work out who has decided to join him Griffs voice carries over the sound of running water. 

 

“Max…” Griff is close, closer than Max had anticipated and the nearness has Max’s turn almost becoming a stumbled fall. 

 

Griff is in his space and steadying him before he can process the movement, careless of the waters’ spray as he grips Max's biceps. He doesn't have to care about the water particularly though, seeing as he's naked as the day his momma birthed him and seemingly unbothered by the fact. 

 

“Griff what're you…” Max shouldn't be this startled, he should be so taken aback - he's seen every goddamn dick and ass in the company a hundred times over at this point and regrets at least two thirds of them - but they're alone, and Griff is in close proximity and he's  _ touching _ , and all of Max's lofty daydreams are suddenly vying for attention. The cacophony is silenced, however, when Griffs grip travels up the skin of Max’s arm and to the curve of his neck. Griff may as well be screaming his intent, leaning into Max’s space and curling his fingers through the wet strands of Max’s hair and bringing their lips into a firm kiss. 

 

Christ its good, its so fucking good and Max pushes back into it immediately, hands finding Griffs waist and guide him closer. Max can feel the scrape of Griffs stubble, the tiny nip of teeth as Griff deepens the kiss. There are shivers of anticipation crawling up Max’s spine, heat pooling in his gut and his dick gets with the program and perks in interest. The momentum drags Griff into the shower spray and he startles, breaking the kiss and laughing a little at his reaction.

 

“Okay?” Griffs smile is soft and his hands are firm on Max’s skin, but Max is a million miles from o- _ fucking _ -kay because they’re not kissing anymore. He manages to blink himself sensible and tear his gaze from Griffs lips long enough to nod in affirmation.

 

“God, yes. Better than okay, fucking  _ perfect _ -” Max tried to bring Griff back to him, tries to pull him back under the spray but Griff holds firm and grins that sly grin of his. 

 

“I pitch - to answer your question.” There’s a wicked weight in Griffs gaze that has every ounce of Max’s self control straining, the weight of his desire kicking its feet and wailing at him to just fucking drop to his knees right there, but Max has never been the guy to just  _ take  _ it. Griffs grin widens, his teeth catching the meat of his lower lip and his gaze trails over Max in an assessing sweep. “Although I'm fond of catching too…”

 

“Oh, that's good to know.” 

 

“I thought it might pique your interest.” Griff quirks a brow at Max, not even hiding the way his attention is caught on Max cock when he says it. Max follows Griffs gaze, relishing the sight of so much skin and the way Griff leans into it when Max's fingers trail over his waist. Griff is built differently to Max, he's lean and sinewy in a way that highlights his youth, just as the hard lines of his shoulders and jaw anchor his strength and masculinity. Max takes it all in, every inch, in a sweep of his gaze. 

 

“And what are you going to do about my interest now that you've piqued it?” Sixty percent bravado and twenty percent bullshit go into the words, a challenge flung out to the soundtrack of the inconstant shower spray. If it weren't for Griffs fingers carding through Max's hair and the jut of Griffs dick hanging full and heavy Max would worry he'd put Griff off with the wordplay. 

 

The moment hangs, balanced on a knife's edge and tipping perilously as they consider each other. Then Griffs fingers tighten against Max's neck and he leans into Max's space. Max mirrors the action, his hand continuing its investigation of the skin over Griffs ribs as they meet under the shower spray and bring their bodies into close contact. Water sluices over the planes of Max's chest, glancing off the flat of his shoulder and onto Griffs abdomen and it feels as though it's a warm blanket bringing them together as there bodies meet. 

 

Their touches are exploratory, at first. Max presses the pads of his fingers into the divots at the base of Griffs spine, Griff loops an arm around Max's waist and learns the curve of his shoulder blades as their lips meet. It pulls them into each other, has their chests bumping and their hips meeting in a press that traps their cocks against one another and Griff hums his approval into the kiss. 

 

Max wishes they could take their time, use the opportunity to learn every inch of one another but there isn't really the option. It seems like Griff realises it too because he's backing Max into the spray and against the cold tile, boxing him in. 

 

“Touch me, please?” Griff doesn't wait for an answer, he leans back into the kiss and skirts his fingers over the skin of Max's stomach, working his way down to Max's cock quickly. It takes Max a minute to get his bearings, between the curl of Griffs tongue against his and the grip of Griffs fingers around his cock he's a little overloaded. 

 

“Please?” Griffs request breaks the kiss and Max curses himself for being so slow, they don't have the luxury of time right now. Fuck it, the entire US and Vietnamese armies could walk through the fucking doors right now and Max wouldn't waver in his want to touch Griff. 

 

Fuck it. 

 

Max bats Griffs hand away and brings them even closer, brings their cocks into contact and encloses them in the loose loop of his fingers. Griff makes a noise against Max's lips, a hum of approval that becomes a whine when Max twists his wrist in just the right way. It's exquisite and sloppy and the kiss is more them huffing breaths into each others mouths as Max picks up the pace. Max legs feel shaky and Griff is clinging to him, hips moving in time with the rhythm of Max's hand. It's perfect, it's so, so fucking perfect and Max shudders at the sensation of their cocks moving against each other. 

 

Max’s orgasm is clawing its way down his spine, pressing itself under his skin and screaming for release. Griff isn't much more composed, he's not just shifting his hips he's outright fucking into Max grip and biting back huffed moans as he buries his face against Max's shoulder. Griffs fingers drift over the skin of his back, flexing at the meat of Max's ass before dipping into the crease. 

 

There's a deep moan that rips from Max’s lungs, Griffs insistent brush of fingers dragging it forth and capturing it on his lips as Max spills over Griffs cock. Max's climax is a punched out thing, sudden and swift and disarming, and Max feels it in his lungs and in his weak knees, only holding out because Griff has him in a death grip of his own as he fucks unsteadily into Max's loose grip and finally comes with a bitten off moan. 

 

“Fuck, Max.” Griffs voice is husky and he sounds exhausted. Max can't really unscramble his brain enough to reply yet so he clings to Griff, burying his face in the crook of Griffs neck and taking steadying breaths. Griff holds him, he holds him tight and peppers his neck with soft kisses that are rough edged by the stubble that scrapes his skin.

 

* * *

 

 

There's a funny thing about love. 

 

Love, for all of the sonnets and prose that proclaim otherwise, is completely normal. It verges on banal, really. 

 

Yet Max can't help the way his chest seizes and he smiles at Griff. He can't stop the thoughts of Griff and  _ after _ , those lazy daydreams that play over and over while he's on the job. It's escapism, pure and simple, but he indulges in it. They'll get out and go back to the US, make a pitstop for Aslan before they fucking vamoose and get the fuck out of America. Anywhere would do. 

 

Yes, love is banal and incredibly normal, but it doesn't stop Max from falling under the weight of it. It doesn't make Max's heart any less Griffin's. It doesn't stop his imagination running away from him when he's alone in his bunk in the dark of night, or the way his heart soars when Griffs fingers brush his waist when they pass one another. It doesn't stop Max wishing them a million miles away from the oppressive heat. 

 

The daydreams are beyond a joke, in reality. 

 

Reality always peeks in to disarm, after all. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr as [@banana-ffish](https://banana-ffish.tumblr.com/) for my fandom blog, or hmu at for my shitposting and yelling [@topcatnikki](https://topcatnikki.tumblr.com/)


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